He got up from his armchair suddenly and started pacing around the room. Sherlock then, while still pacing, ripped off his six nicotine patches.
"John? John! Get me seven nicotine patches. NOW!"
John was in the cramped kitchen, emptying the mouldy food out of the fridge…and dismembered fingers and toes were somewhere amongst the disgusting contents.
"H-hang on! Let me just-urgh-put this outside in the bin!"
Sherlock immediately strode into the room, took the bulging bin bag from John and opened the window over the bins. Angrily, he shoved the bin bag out the window and it landed with a thump into the bed of other putrid rubbish.
"There. Now get me my patches," he walked back into their front room and plonked back down in his armchair sighing impatiently.
John rolled his eyes. Quickly, he opened the cupboard and searched through the ocean of pill packets and medicine bottles. John stopped abruptly. He feared Sherlock's reaction to what he was about to say…
He coughed awkwardly.
"Err, we're out of nicotine patches…" John mumbled.
He took a deep breath.
"We are completely out of nicotine patches Sherlock,"
Silence. Slowly, Sherlock got out of his armchair and went to his locked drawers. He muttered something.
"Pardon? "John inquired.
"My gun. Where's my gun…?" Sherlock repeated and then he threw out packs of cigarettes, old tie pins and cuff link boxes.
After a while, Sherlock stopped searching and stared at John.
"Where did you put it?" he demanded quietly.
John tried looking innocent.
"Where did I put what?"
"My gun, John! MY GUN!"
John stared coldly back at Sherlock and then glanced up to the smiley face on the wall.
"I was not gonna risk another one of those incidents, Sherlock,"
Sherlock blinked repeatedly before shutting his eyes and grinding his teeth.
"Give. Me. The. Gun," he said through gritted teeth. He was attempting to hold onto his temper.
Silence and continuous staring. They both darted towards John's drawers but John got there first and triumphantly held the gun away from Sherlock.
"Hand me the gun, John. I'm only going to vent my anger on a bloody smiley face!!!"
"First the smiley face, then what?! No, Sherlock,"
That was it. Sherlock flew at John and straddled him. The gun stayed in the firm clasp of John's hand, but as they struggled, Sherlock's knee's lost there place on the carpet and before they knew it, their lips were touching. Neither of them dared to move for a few minutes, before Sherlock rolled off of John and didn't look at him. He was flushing rose pink at the cheekbones. John slowly sat up. He blinked for a bit and then grabbed Sherlock's shoulders with extraordinary strength. He pulled the man closer to him, Sherlock didn't resist, and John tenderly kissed Sherlock's lips once again. Sherlock responded this time and kissed back with passion. The gun lay forgotten on the floor….but Sherlock's free hand crawled toward the gun and casually fired at the smiley face behind him.
"Sherlock bloody Holmes! What've you done to my poor wall!?!?" screeched up Mrs Hudson and the two men grinned.